In the Becoming
by One Story Keeper
Summary: A coming of age story centered around a Mandalorian boy named Par'jila who has recently taken part in his Verd'goten (milestone of becoming an adult) and how he has to come to grips with adult life with unlikely allies. He solidifies his identity as a Mandalorian as learns from Mandalorians of high reputation as well as outsiders.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: A Man is Made**

Par'jila swallowed as a tight knot curled up in his throat. Under a mossy outcropping, he could see the large shifting shadow. Although his father had accompanied him, Par'jila had to, on his own, face off with the Tzaigyr, a particularly large cousin to the saber cat that was unique to this moon. Par'jila stepped forward with a blaster in one hand and a vibroblade in the other. Sensing his presence the beast rose from its den, muscles rippling along its broad shoulders and flicking its razor spined tail. _How am I ready for…this?_ The Tzaigyr lumbered forward digging its massive claws into the dark soft earth. A guttural snarl rumbled through its thick lips. The creature eyed him over as if it was deciding if Par'jila's small stature was worth the effort to make a snack of, and in instinct Par'jila raised the blaster. POW! He let off a shot that the Tzaigyr ducked beneath with snapping reflexes that hurtled its large mass forward. Par'jila's heart thudded in his ears as the beast whipped around him, flanking him, and swiping with its razor claws. Par'jila rolled to the side, letting off a volley of blaster bolts. The creature bounded around two of them and yowled with a guttural shriek as the third burned a deep gash in its left shoulder. It swiped its serrated tail around striking the blaster from Par'jila's grasp. He gasped in pain at the deep gash that trailed up his wrist. Gritting his teeth, he charged the mammoth creature lunging with the vibroblade. It roared as it swiped down with its massive paw hurtling Par'jila across the ground. He rolled to the side as the snapping jaws of the Tzaigyr sent globs of saliva sprinkling across the dense grass. Par'jila whipped up to his feet and slashed down gouging the beast's neck, and it reeled back with another reverberating roar. Par'jila let out a deep roar of his own as he charged the beast again. Slicing with a memorized precision that kept the beast stumbling back on its heels. The sharp tail ripped towards him again, and Par'jila dove away from it slashing upwards sending a spray of blood from the wounded appendage. The Tzaigyr lunged forward. Its claws tore down the breastplate of Par'jila's armor, and he thrust the blade up through the beast's jaw. With the blade piercing through its maw and out its eye the beast lurched backward wrenching the blade from Par'jila's hands and sputtering blood as it shook and gnashed its fangs. Par'jila stiffened with a cold chill as the beast moved again towards him. He quickly scanned for the blaster and catching sight of it, lunged towards it as the beast thundered towards him again. Par'jila scooped up the blaster and sent two true shots into the beast's rippling chest. It collapsed at his feet, writing, swiping, snapping its jaws. There was honor in this creature that was still fighting though the light of life had clearly forsaken its eyes. Par'jila let off one last shot that echoed through the grove and the beast finally stilled.

Par'jila walked back to the camp with his father's hand firmly on his shoulder. He had never been so proud of himself, and he suspected that his father had never been prouder of him. The Tzaigyr had been decimating the wildlife in that forest for the last few months and now that it was dealt with both the forest itself and the clan could rest easier. Soon they passed by through the entrance to the camp. Par'jila looked over the vheh'yaim, the easily replaceable homes, and he remembered first learning to build one with his mother. He was only thirteen, but having just completed his verd'goten he couldn't help looking back on those memories as if they were such a long distant memory. As they drew closer to the campfires where the others were gathered, Par'jila could see the clan waving their arms and hooting loudly to welcome them back in the camp. They piled in around the campfires in a large group, with all eyes joyfully drinking in their return. Arriving at the warm blazes, Par'jila's father started yelling out to them,

"Take a look at this man who comes into your midst!" He guided Par'jila over to one of the campfires and members of the clan started yelling out congratulations and whooping boisterously.

"I thought that was Par'jila?" Jari'eyc teased, "A runt of a boy, but something's a little different now." He sat on a stump and playfully gestured to the group to join in.

"Yaim who is that man with you?" Zhan who sat close by, took up Jari'eyc's ruse squinting her dark eyes as if she had trouble seeing him and shaking her head. "Surely, one of our clan?"

"This is the man, Par'jila," Yaim pushed him forward, and Par'jila stumbled into their midsts with such a giddy smile that his cheeks hurt. "He has proven himself to be a true Mandalorian and a man by completing his ver'goten!" The party of Mandalorians let out loud cheers, and Par'jila felt a proud heat rising in his chest and face.

"Come, join us," Jari'eyc said with a broad smile that could barely be seen through his thick mustache. Par'jila sat down on an empty stump, pushing his dark bangs out of his face. He was planning to cut them because they made they at times made it hard to line up a shot. The clan eyed the bandage on his arm and the gashes in the armor. True armor would not be so easily marred, and now he had finally earned the right to wear it in future battles. Par'jila's father quickly disappeared into one of the vheh'yaim.

"So, Par'jila, what did you see out there?" Ti asked as she wrapped her nexu colored hair up in a tight bun. It was Par'jila's story to tell which of the many volatile beasts he had slain, and his enthusiasm bubbled up within him to be able to say that it was the Tzaigyr that had been plaguing the area.

"Don't tell her she needs a little suspense in her life," Jari'eyc shushed.

"I have enough suspense in my life. Will I kill Jari'eyc today? Will I punch him, will I stab him, will I shoot him?" Ti punctuated each word. "You're concern should be when I become certain." Ti stuck out her plump lower lip and narrowed her round eyes into piercing lines.

"I look forward to it, actually," Jari'eyc raised his eyebrows playfully as if expecting her to make a move.

"Are you sure you two ever completed your ver'goten? I wasn't there; someone needs to corroborate this," Nawara, the only Twi'lek in their party laughed at their aggressive play.

"They did, I was a child, but I remember the celebration they received when they came back," Par'jila said experimenting with his new adult candor.

Nawara laughed, "I'm sure."

"Speaking of celebrations, when are we getting really started?" Jari'eyc rubbed his calloused palms excitedly.

"Right now," Yaim rejoined the group with Zhan and the two of them handed out drinks to the lot of them. The group cheered. "My son is now an adult, may your armor shine with the honor in wearing it, and the lessons it represents."

Ti hoisted her drink, "May you treasure your language like you value your life."

"May you never fail to defend yourself, or your family," Zhan nodded her head to Par'jila.

"When the time comes, make Mandalorians of your children," Jari'eyc raised his drink.

Nawara clapped Par'jila on the shoulder, "cherish your duty by contributing to your clan's welfare."

"May your loyalty never fail to rally to the call of Mand'alor," Yaim smiled proudly.

Par'jila stood, "I will keep the six actions, Resol'nare!" he raised his drink and with a volley of cheers they all drank. The group dissolved into excited chatter, telling of fables, congratulations, the exaggeration of past experiences, and half laughed out songs. For the first time, Par'jila was able to contribute his own stories retelling his encounter in the forest. Over and over again as the night grew on. He felt proud to be a Mandalorian, and all that meant.

The night grew quiet, and most returned to their vheh'yaim. Others sat by the campfires still jabbering away, half asleep or drunk. Par'jila wanted to still feel wide awake, but he couldn't deny that he was tired. He looked around the fire at Jari'eyc, Ti, and his father. He was finally an adult; he had trained hard for ver'goteen and succeeded. He didn't want to sleep; he wanted this night to last. He thought about the countless skills he had learned and how he had applied them. Par'jila couldn't help wondering how much everything would really change. Everyone had talked about how different it was to be an adult, but that didn't mean much.

Suddenly, the warning call sounded those still at the campfire looked to the border of the camp where the call had sounded. The clattering of an attack party came ringing over the hillside. Soon they appeared, already exchanging blaster fire with Mandalorian sentries, revealing a mixed gang of Rodians, Humans, and Trandoshans. Par'jila almost wanted to laugh that they had the nerve to take on a band of Mandalorians. He pulled out his blaster and took cover behind a nearby plasteel container sending shots towards the attackers. In moments, those who were previously sleeping were out and charging into battle. The Mandalorians were spread out, and many of the attackers were falling to their volleys. Jari'eyc took a bolt to the shoulder, but it merely ricocheted off his armor. Par'jila's heart was racing just like it as during his ver'gotten; it felt like it was the next step in his tests.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Value**

Par'jila looked over at his father, whose face was a bunch of taut lines. They were defending their clan members side by side for the first time, and it almost didn't feel real. The attackers ducked behind trees and boulders trying to avoid the onslaught of the Mandalorian clan. The Mandalorians slowly pushed forward, and Par'jila ducked from cover to cover beside his father as the attackers were forced back away from the camp. The ragtag attackers were quickly losing numbers. Zhan dropped three of them, Ti another two. With only eight left, they were now outnumbered, and the heat of pride ran through Par'jila's veins. He didn't know who these foolhardy people were, but they should have known better than to attack a Mandalorian clan. Then a grenade rolled into view. Par'jila's eyes widened, and he fell back, yelling to his father. The bright blast ripped into the ground, sending clumps of earth in every direction. He felt pain, then nothing.

Par'jila woke to the sound of an unfamiliar language. His whole body ached, and it didn't help that his hands were tightly bound behind his back. He didn't want to call attention to himself, but he couldn't help shuddering from the pain. He looked down at his chest and legs to see his clothing was shredded and bloodied. His light armor had been stripped off, and he could see gashes where shrapnel had torn right through it. His skin itched on his face and neck where blood had dried. Par'jila took stock of his surroundings. He was near a puddle jumper of a cruiser among the mix of races belonging to the attacking group. The sun was now high in the sky, and there was no sign of anyone else from his clan. Another shock of pain rushed through him, and he couldn't stop a groan from escaping. A human male trudged over to him and hurled out a barrage of words that might have been Basic. Par'jila ignored him trying to see if there was anything around him that he could turn to his advantage.

"What language do you speak?" the man demanded, "Do you speak Basic?"

"He probably speaks that junk language his kind use," another man said. "Try a different trade language."  
"You try it, Utho, I don't have the patience," the man huffed. Utho shrugged and squatted down next to Par'jila. The new man wore bandages on his shoulder and leg, from wounds he likely received while attacking the Mandalorian camp. He hoisted Par'jila painfully into a sitting position and looked him directly in the eye. Par'jila traced the rugged lines of the man's face, looking for some meaning in the man's brown eyes, uncertain of what he was planning. He looked like a man who knew hard work, his skin darkened and leathery from exposure to the sun. The hands he gripped Par'jila with were calloused like he was more accustomed to hard labor than being in firefights.

"You speak Huttese, Twi'leki, Bocce?" Noting subtle flicks from Par'jila's eyes, he smiled, "Twi'leki it is?"

"How do you know that?" The Rodian scoffed, "He didn't even say nothing."

"He didn't have to; I saw how he reacted to it." Utho then spoke to Par'jila in Twi'leki, "What's your name, boy?"

"Jump off a cliff," Par'jila snorted.

Utho laughed, "You'll need that spirit."

"Where are the others?" Par'jila asked.

"Dead," Utho hoisted Par'jila to his feet, "Come along, and you won't get hurt."

"There's no way you killed my clan."

"Well, kid, it's either that or they left you for dead. Pick whichever you like," he began dragging Par'jila towards the shuttlecraft. Par'jila's body ached with every movement, and his larger wounds began leaking more blood. _There is no way a ragged band like these captors could kill so many Mandalorians, not with one hundred grenades_. However, the clan would never have willingly left one of their own behind either. He grimaced wrenching out of Utho's grasp. Par'jila quickly settled into a balanced stance and swung his leg, landing a firm blow in Utho's gut. The man tumbled over, and the only other remnants of the group quickly sprung to their feet. Par'jila gasped as his body shook from the rattling pain of delivering the kick. He peddled backward as Utho climbed back to his feet.

"You brat," Utho huffed. "And here I wanted to be nice on account of you being a kid."

"I am no child," Par'jila forced his body to move again, slamming into the Rodian, sending the creature writhing from his own wounds. Par'jila fell to his knees but quickly rolled away from the human man trying to tackle him. On his back, Par'jila swung his leg over thudding into the man's back, flattening him. Utho grabbed a blaster and pointed it at Par'jila.

"Quit while you still got a life," Utho growled. Before Utho could be forced to use his bluff, the Rodian landed a firm kick in Par'jila's ribs sending him sputtering. Utho grabbed Par'jila's arm. Pulling him up again Utho shoved the barrel of the blaster behind Par'jila's ear forcing his jaw to the side. "Enough with you."

"What are going to do with me?" Par'jila squirmed against Utho's grip.

"Taking you to market. We got more than we bargained for when you turned out to be a bunch of Mando scum, but you're young enough to fetch a decent price still. Some people get a real kick out of putting your kind in their place."

"A slaver has no right to call someone scum," Par'jila pushed against the blaster barrel to spit in Utho's face.

The lines of Utho's face drew taught, and he pressed the barrel harder against Par'jila's head. "I'd watch your tongue kid, the people we sell you off too won't care about keeping you in good health. Frankly, I'm losing interest myself." Par'jila tried to yank free again, but Utho's grip only tightened. Par'jila cried out as the pain rushing through him nearly dropped him to his knees.

"Well, he's got good energy," the Rodian slaver sighed, catching his breath.

"Get him on the ship," Utho ordered pushing Par'jila over to the other two. They both took firm holds on Par'jila and forced him forward and up the ramp of the ship.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: A Cell by any Name**

The slavers locked Par'jila in an empty cargo hold. As he continued to writhe against them, the human grabbed some thick banded cord and with great difficulty, and a few new bruises, tied Par'jila's ankles tightly together. He pulled the bonds so tight that nearly instantly pins and needles rushed through his numbing feet. Sputtering in the language that Par'jila did not know they left and locked the door behind them. Par'jila was breathing heavily and shuttering from exhaustion. He tried to sit up but slipped on the floor, being slickened by the blood from his reopened wounds.

Par'jila remembered his lessons and began observing the space for any means to escape. The space had flat metal walls and no clutter which Par'jila could consider fashioning into a tool or weapon. It was a very narrow space, not meant for regular supplies. Perhaps they had specifically converted it for holding their prisoners. The only thing in the room was the access panel to open the door, which he was willing to guess was inoperative on this side. However, that didn't mean it was useless. The narrowness of the space put the panel in the corner of the room, at a height that he, would have to be standing to reach. Par'jila had seen this kind of spacecraft before. It was one of the smallest hyperspace crafts available and was built for convenience, rather than traveling long distances. They would have to stop many times to refuel if they were going anywhere more than a world away. The convenience based nature of the craft meant that even door access panels were made as snap-ons so that the maintenance would be easier. If he could manage to stand, he could access the inner workings of the panel.

He heard the ship's main hatch close, and he could feel the rumble of the engines humming to life. Par'jila started worming over to the panel, gritting his teeth against the shooting pain rushing up and down his body. The ship quaked beneath him, and he knew they must be taking off. He reached the corner the panel was in, and got close enough to the wall to put his shoulder on it. Par'jila groaned as with excruciating, awkward, movements he wiggled up into a sitting position. The ship quaked and jolted, nearly causing him to slide back down. They were definitely flying now. Using the adjacent wall, he pushed himself into a kneeling position. Then pushing his shoulders against the walls, he gritted his teeth against the pain, and he used his head and toes to push himself in the corner and slide up until he was tenuously on his feet.

The numbness in his feet was growing worse, and he hurriedly backed to the panel and tried to wedge his fingers under the snap on faceplate. He strained against his bonds, to stay standing, and to remove the panel cover. Finally, it snapped off and fell to the floor. He then used the sharp metal edges where the panel had been attached to saw through the bindings on his wrists. He was thankful that these slavers didn't invest in more sturdy restraints. When he finally got through, and his hands were free, he rubbed his raw wrists and stretched his sore shoulders. He sat back down and untied his feet wincing as the blood flow returned to his feet. The shuttle jolted again, and Par'jila toppled over into the wall. It must have been the jump to hyperspace. He was in for the long haul now. He picked at the damp holes in his shirt and pants. He could see that the slavers had used skin glue on him to patch where the grenade blast had hit him. Only the deepest gashes had reopened from his first escape attempt.

He didn't know how he had managed to survive. Even in his memory that whole occurrence seemed slowed, the grenade landing, his backing away, yelling to his father, the explosion. Par'jila shuttered, His father couldn't be dead, maybe so badly wounded that he couldn't come to rescue him, but not dead, not his father. He felt tears creeping up; he sniffed them back. He had to be a Mandalorian; he couldn't just cry as slavers hauled him off to who knows where. He decided it would be best to ride the trip out. If he broke out now, there would be nowhere to go. He looked over the exposed wires; it would be easy to short out the door when the time came. He replaced the panel and picked up the bonds for his hands. He hobbled back to where the slavers had put him and lay down. He could fake the prisoner as long as he needed. A good Mandalorian knows when to wait.

The slavers came in a few hours later to drop some rations in front of him. They only spoke to each other in Basic. Par'jila had never learned Basic even though it was such a prominent language. He had picked up a few words from Basic, but knowing his own language was more useful, and the majority of traders his clan met spoke Twi'leki. Now, he wished he knew a little more, in case they were saying things that concerned him. One piece of communication did not elude him; the disgusted sneers they all gave him. He was angry that such scum would look at him with disgust as if being Mandalorian made him a lower form of life than they were. When the time came, he'd be ready, and if he could manage it, he would make them suffer for what they did in their arrogance.


End file.
